


Oriel

by whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived AGAIN, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, fluff still searching for a plot, i think it's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit/pseuds/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has the world's smallest oriel window, just big enough for two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oriel

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I love my flat and if I could I'd die so I could be a ghost to watch these two idiots like the pervert Destiel land fill that I am.

Dean is happy. Well,  _happy_  might be a bit too heavy of a word, but he is okay. A steady job he doesn't hate, likes even, friends he cares for and knows they care for him, too. The previous dates went well. He is doing okay.

But he can't sleep for too long. He gently pats his memory foam mattress, cooing that “it's not your fault, honey" and gets up. Well, crap. It's not even four o'clock. On a Saturday. Grunting, he drags himself to his life support, and while his true blood starts brewing, he shuffles to the bathroom. The overhead lights scream  _get back to bed you idjit_  to his eyes, and in the harsh fluorescent light his complexion is way too pale, his freckles nothing even slightly reminiscent of the sun kissed feeling they usually give.

Yep. He looks like shit. After being run over by a tank wearing with stilettos. Repeatedly. 

The coffee machine gurgles that it's done, and Dean patiently waits for the last drop of the fluid brown gold to drop down and settles into his lookout. Amon Sûl Of The Poor, as Charlie and Sam had dubbed it in a slightly hazy state after a 14-hour (repeated scenes) no-break LOTR marathon, was the deciding factor for Dean to take the flat. Old school House. 3,4 metre high rooms, second floor, no elevator. 68 square metres, once two separate garçonnières, a door had been breached between what was now his living room and bedroom. Entering, you had the kitchen to the left and on the other side of the wall was the bathroom, which meant that everyone going for a piss had to walk through both rooms. That was the only hick-up Dean had when he was viewing the flat. He knew that both friends and family were to be he only people to visit, and all had seen him either butt-naked, or throw up, or both. Some several times. Mary had declared it a Mother's Bonus. 

 

But then he had seen it, the right hand corner of his living room, filled with laughter and sunshine and bare feet resting in each other's lap while reading.

Because Dean is the proud owner of the likely smallest, cuddliest, hands down cutest oriel window ever created by mankind. Just big enough for two to sit facing each other; or one Sam; if one doesn't mind bumping knees. Ellen had had the great idea of wedging in, somehow, a small window sill into the inner corner that will just about hold two cups.

His inner gardener and cat both loath the cold months, because no matter how many potted plants he has, it's green alright, and that's okay but come the warm season, oh! As soon as the sun allows it, his outside window sills are a seemingly wild growing garden, filled with Penstemon, Yarrow, Marigold, Zinnia and Bougainvillea, Geranias too. And, very likely his most favourite, Blue Cineria. One year he found that somehow, inexplicably, a frikken Sunflower had managed to wedge itself up into one flower-box. It was awesome and he had dubbed her Samantha. That had earned him several likes when he had posted that his new flatmate was so much like Sam, freakishly tall with a giant head that the friendly irl-punch he received was totally worth it.

And if he must be subjected to endure cold months, he needs to smother himself with blankets, coffee and fennel tea and fuzzy socks. Ever since moving in it's been his favourite pastime during rainy days to sit in the little booth and watch the rain beat against the windows or the virgin snow still white from it's fall to earth while feeling toasty, all wrapped up in a blanket or one of Sams old sweaters he may or may not have snatched a few years ago. Ever since, he has had wanted his vision of happiness to come true. To cuddle up to, or cuddle another one into, a giant cocoon of blissful warmth. Granted, he is an arse who'd likely stick his cold feet in first, but hey, one's gotta do all one can to keep warm.

He's already wrapped up into his favourite blanket, cup of coffee in front of him, Håkan Nesser's latest book _The Living and the Dead in Winsford_ in his lap and both have been forgotten because of a stupid blue car passing below, which had reminded him of Cas.

Cas and him have another date tonight. And it's the seventh and Dean isn't blue balled at all but he does hope for a signal from Cas that it'd be okay to, you know, sit closer even if the situation doesn't ask for it  (he _might_ have tried to get in crowded pubs for this perk) or hold hands or maybe even have a good ol' fashioned good night kiss. Not that he minds the peck on the cheek they exchange when meeting and saying good night, but he'd like to level up. At least he thinks they've had dates. Only because Cas is into dude's too it does not automatically allow the assumption that he's into Dean. But when a chick had all but sashayed her way over to their table last Tuesday, presenting what Dean assumed were amazing boobs, and certainly a winning smile, too, Cas had shot her down with a surprisingly well received mix of gentleness and straightforwardness. And when a dude hit on Dean (who was not interested, thank you very much, he had the Ambassador of Sexy sitting right next to him), Cas actually had inched closer to Dean. Hope dies last. Hell, he'll _make_ it so they brush their fingers somehow and maybe they'll end up holding hands tonight. It's not that he's impatient, but Dean's most happy when he can somehow physically connect.

Four cups of coffee, two loads of laundry, a frantic cleaning spree of his entire flat, and slightly burnt tofu with veggie rice for supper while finishing the book make his day pass quicker than he'd like. Which means, right now he is late seventeen minutes to a date with Cas. 

Who is smiling, all adorable scrunchy face like, while Dean is motor-mouthing about how sorry he is and that he'll make sure to never be late again if Cas would agree to another date, and finally, finally, Castiel takes Deans hand, gently pulling the other male to himself by the scarf and presses his forehead and nose to the other's and his mouth still allows a whispered,"I had begun to fear I was the only one to think of us meeting as dates." before he closes the distance for the first time of many.

Apparently visions can come true, hope lives, and sleep does indeed come easy when you can unleash your inner cat-opus to curl against and around another body and entwine _everything._ Cas doesn't even mind Deans cold feet when they sneak between his thighs to steal the warmth, as he has done almost daily for the last couple of years, while they read for the last time in what has been renamed to Cas' Private Dean Kissing Booth. This is the last night they'll have it, having had supper on an impromptu desk make of what few boxes they still have in the flat.

Dean will continue to weasel in his toed icicles in between Castiel's Bee PJ clad thighs, but starting tomorrow, they will read on theirbalcony.


End file.
